


A Fall From Grace

by TheAllonsyGirl



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAllonsyGirl/pseuds/TheAllonsyGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Reid had once had it all; a respectable job at the BAU, his health, a comfortable life. Then he got addicted to dilaudid. He gambled away his money, became reckless and careless, and he was dismissed. Now he has to make do with life on the streets, with the help of Liana and Billy, he barely survives. Then one day he sees a familiar face; can they help him regrow his wings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homeless

14th NOVEMBER 2012

The cold wind carried the light flakes of falling snow through the crevices of old buildings, carelessly allowing them to drift into oblivion. The threadbare green of old gloves painted a picture of abstract color against the ivory canvas upon Manhattan's streets. The cruelty of the whistle the wind carried, drove every soul inside their humble abode, all except the forgotten. There were worn-out blankets littered endlessly through the main streets, the soulless eyes of the forgotten staring at, but not seeing in the least, the icy floor upon which they huddled. Some begged for money, others had dogs. Some had strained their voices from sobbing endlessly through the night, others were just too cold, and their only prayer from this day forward was to perish upon the glacial floors, and vanish into the blizzard, like so many had.  
　　  
　　The city people walked past these souls so blindly, that sometimes it was a wonder if they were even still in existence at all. They scavenged for leftover food scraps, they stole from food and clothing stores with lax security, and slept in the mild and meagre shelter of benches, train stations and shop doorways. Many of the forgotten were once quite successful, most were happy and loved, and all were once more than the shells they now were. Everyone had their story to tell. One man in particular had too many memories. Painful and dreary in his eidetic memory, he was plagued endlessly by each whispery one. He had been a successful profiler for the BAU, and he had excelled in his field, but those days were long gone, and his life was now nothing but a patchwork of faded and broken remembrances.  
　　  
　　Spencer Reid was not who he used to be; the mind that used to set him apart from the rest, was now only an instrument of torture. His face was unshaven and often cut, from the panicked scrambles he faced daily for the last scrap of someone's old bagel. He had formed somewhat of a bond with two other urchins of the streets. He has gained their trust quickly, after sharing his stolen treasures with them, upon their granted request to harbour him from the bitter cold in their home. If you could call it that; it was a run-down, abandoned husk of a building. It had once been a department store, as illustrated by the grotesque plethora of mannequin parts, piled in an unused corner.  
　　  
　　Spencer raised his sepia eyes up to meet those of a passing stranger, an outstretched, trembling hand daringly held to be visible. He said nothing, his meekness still abundant, and hoped the stranger would take pity on his existence. The man flipped a quarter haphazardly in the direction of Spencer's hands, it tumbled and landed noiselessly upon the snow. Spencer grabbed the shiny achievement and put it in the old Starbucks cup he used for change. The people of New York were often ungenerous, but today, at last count Spencer had collected five dollars and thirty two cents; enough for a hot meal. Often, he wouldn't eat for days because the right time to steal hadn't come up, or he hadn't gathered enough money. On some days, he and the others would walk the four blocks to the soup kitchen, but given their frailety and lack of stamina, this was rare. They rarely roamed too far from Bargain City; that was the old department store they settled in, just in case they became too weak to make it back.  
　　  
　　They rarely left alone either, for on the streets every man and woman who was just as forgotten as you, was your enemy. Every forgotten one had learned this the hard way, upon being mugged for their stolen goods, or even just for a better spot to sleep. That was why Spencer had been lucky to find Liana and Billy; they'd saved him from the Twelfth Street Ringers. Some of the forgotten ones had come together in crime and proceeded to torment any and every one they saw. The settlement was a couple of blocks from Twelfth Street, but still they were not safe; the Ringers thought nothing of crossing jurisdictions between camps.  
　　  
　　Spencer pulled himself up from the maroon-coloured blanket, which was now sodden from the melting snowfall. He dragged it limply behind him the way a lost child drags a security blanket, and slinked through the broken doorway of the Bargain City settlement. He eyed the area cautiously, and once he had concluded there was no imminent threat he set the blanket across a haphazard scaffold to dry. He ambled over to the dimly lit corner of the first floor and knelt in front of the oil drum which harboured a modest fire. He held his trembling hands over the dancing embers, a dull ache shocking its way through his fingers as the numbness subsided.  
　　  
　　Liana looked up at Spencer curiously, pulling her slender fingers through the tangled mass of hair that graced down her shoulders. Her eyes always seemed wild and fearful; which was a deceptive representation. Liana was a scrappy and intelligent woman beyond her eccentricity, but she would never let it be known. She pulled her thin, grey shawl around her fragile frame and scurried quickly to Spencer;  
"Whatchya get?" she asked hurriedly, crouching down beside him.  
"Five dollars thirty two cents," he replied, placing the Starbucks cup in front of her.  
"How much were the hot dogs at the cart?" she frowned as her crystal blue eyes caught his.  
"A dollar ninety five," he uttered softly.  
"We don't have enough for three," Liana whined forlornly, throwing the change back into the cup with a sigh. Spencer didn't look up from the fire, he only numbly replied;  
"Don't worry, we don't know what Billy got yet. Where was he headed today?" he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his black zip-up hoodie; an early theft from Target, in his desperation. Liana thought for a moment;  
"He said he was gonna play outside Macy's today, it's a busy area so maybe he had some luck out there," she tried to reassure herself that maybe she would get her hot dog tonight. Hot dogs were Liana's favourite, and she had the patience of a small child craving candy. The wind was growing in force, rendering Spencer's body stiff and limited. He made his way over to the old mattress that he called his own, wth difficulty, and flopped down. He curled himself up as small as his frame would allow and cuddled himself in a futile effort to keep out the cold. He had been out there for two months, three weeks, four days; like an alcoholic never forgets his last drink, Spencer remembered his last night of security. He cast the thoughts away from him, not allowing the shadows to engulf him; he would sort neatly through everything his brain was storing, just not tonight.

Billy ran through the archway, his breath catching in his chest as he checked he had not been followed back to the settlement. he set down his saxaphone case, the latch was broken, the metal of the instrument was now tarnished and scratched.  
"What happened?" Spencer lifted his head a little at the commotion. Liana interrupted, and skittered over;  
"Never mind that! Got enough for hot dogs?" she licked her lips and held out her hands, almost dancing on the spot. Billy rolled his eyes; he had grown used to Liana over the years;  
"I got enough for forty hot dogs," he smiled smugly. Spencer's interest was piqued; he had a sinking feeling he knew how he had obtained the money. It was something he'd done himself in dark times; he had become comfortably numb with it.  
"How do any of us get fifty bucks, Lia?" Billy replied stridently. She looked down and wrung her hands together;  
"You gave 'im one didn't ya?" she laughed but in no way was it mirthful, it was nervous and ashamed. Billy nodded, a grim smile upon his chapped lips. He threw the balled-up notes at Liana's feet, and much like a rat after scraps, she scurried to gather them in her soot-covered hands. Spencer stood shakily from the mattress and took the money from Liana's hands;  
"I'll go this time. I'll hit the store on the way," he twitched a small smile and moved towards the arch.  
"Spencer, get some cheap liquor!" Billy hollered after him. Spencer saluted him half heartedly to acknowledge that he'd heard. 

Spencer pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and put his head down as he fought against the bitter wind and snow. He kicked a stray tin can as he walked a block to the store, a meagre distraction from his chill-bitten face and hands. He walked through the doors of Minute Mart, and grabbed a basket. He grabbed two bottles of cheap bourbon as Billy had requested, a big bargain jar of coffee grinds, some orange juice, bread, crackers, rice and beans and headed to the counter. The checkout girl glanced at him curiously; his dishevelled clothes and unkempt hair were out of place even for this place. Spencer had calmly worked out the prices in his head in seconds (thirty eight seventy two) he thought to himself;  
"Thirty eight seventy two please," she uttered quietly, and Spencer handed it over. She returned his change of one dollar twenty eight to his grubby palm, and he put it in his pocket. He concluded they had seventeen dollars fourteen left, he thought he should leave some money for emergency supplies, but he wanted a smoke so badly. He and Billy had shared any that had been bought, found or stolen, and he found that replacing his one vice of dilaudid with nicotine, had been his only way out. 

He walked back out into the bracing tundra, and made his way to the lowly hot dog vendor; he couldn't understand why this guy still stood out in the cold, all bundled up next to his little cart. Spencer had to admit he admired the guy's defiance against the elements, and he was thankful he could get Liana her favourite meal.  
"The usual, Spencer?" Joe, the vendor asked, recognising Spencer.  
"Yeah, yeah he usual," Spencer nodded softly.  
"D'ya find a place yet?" Joe replied, his attention focused on retrieving mustard from the near-empty container. Spencer nodded;  
"We sleep in the old Bargain City now. It's hardly the Tangiers, but it stops us from dying like stray dogs," Spencer had lost a lot, but never his eloquent sense of poetry; granted it was a little darker in ouvre these days.  
"I'm glad. I worry about you; I like you guys," Joe smiled genially and handed over the three wrapped hot dogs in exchange for Spencer's money. Spencer took his change and proceeded to walk away. The sound of Joe's voice made him hesitate;  
"Hey, uh Spencer? You want some hot pretzels? I'm packin' up and headin' home; I don't wanna dump 'em in the trash," Spencer's eyes widened, and he began to salivate at the thought;  
"Yes please!" his voice was almost childlike as he danced over to grab the box;  
"Thanks Joe," he grinned, and wrapped his arms around him, taking him by surprise. Joe chuckled;  
"Glad I could help," he patted Spencer lightly on the back and turned, dashing off in to what was now darkness. Spencer smiled as he walked back, and he was reunited with the same tin can from before, he kicked with more vigor. He ducked into the liquor store to buy some smokes, leaving four dollars, give or take, for an emergency. As he turned the corner to get to his humble abode, he smiled. He was poor financially, but he was still alive, that was a lot to be thankful for. He went through the arch and laid his bounty on the table.  
"Whoa! You got all this for fifty bucks?" Billy stared open mouthed.  
"Mostly. Joe gave me the pretzels for free 'cause he was heading home. I even got us a pack of smokes," he grinned at the awe upon their faces; they were like kids at Christmas time.  
"Jeez, thanks Spence!" Liana clapped and started to open everything. In an instant, Spencer's eyes grew stormy;  
"I told you before, don't EVER call me Spence," he snapped, his jaw popping in frustration. Liana yelped and nodded like a scolded puppy;  
"I'm sorry," she spoke meekly, frightened by the hostility. Spencer sighed and sat down on an old fruit crate;  
"I'm sorry...It's just a painful reminder of somebody that I used to know," his eyes never left the flames flickering from the oil drum.  
"Tell us, tell us your story Spencer and we'll tell you ours," Billy chimed in, cracking open the bourbon and swigging it like soda from the bottle. Spencer's gaze, once again did not move, but his jaw clenched slightly. His eyes finally shifted to look at Billy, then Liana, then his hands. He pulled out the one tattered photograph he had of himself with his old family. He scanned to see JJ; the only one to ever call him Spence, Morgan; who had been so close to him, Hotch; the boss who had admired him, Emily, David and Garcia; the friends he could never forget. A tear splashed onto the face of the man he had once been, and he felt the eyes of Liana and Billy patiently awaiting his refrain. He looked up and took a deep breath;  
"I was born in Las Vegas..."


	2. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer plucks up the courage to tell his story, but will Billy and Liana's faith in Spencer remain?

14TH NOVEMBER 2012

"I was always a little strange as a kid; I had a ridiculously high IQ, an incredible memory, and I could read so fast it made my tutor's head spin. I made friends with the adults, because the kids thought I was a freak. My mom used to read to me endlessly; it was amongst her favourite things to do. There's something you should know about her. She always had troubles, that back then I couldn't comprehend, I received ridicule and torment because she was different from other people's moms. See my mom is a schizophrenic. My dad, he couldn't take it after years of tolerating her oddities, he left us. I could, and still can't grasp that concept. How do you give up on someone you promised to love through sickness and in health. That was the day I saw my father for who he truly was; a spineless coward. I learned from a young age, that I had to take care of myself, and my mother. I believed that my father had left my mother because of her mental illness, I had no reason not to, but then years later, when I was working at the BAU, I started having these weird dreams. 

I saw a young boy, a boy I knew; Riley Jenkins. He'd been raped and murdered but the investigation never went anywhere. I saw my father with the body in this dream, and so I started to investigate on my own, with my father as the suspect. It took my doing so for my parents to finally tell me the truth about what happened that day. My mother had been in the car with a man named Lou; Riley's father. He had known all along that Gary Michaels was Riley's killer. He stalked me, and I never even knew it. I saw him as the nice, albeit slightly odd, man I played chess with. Needless to say, Lou beat and killed Mr Michaels, and made my mother an accomplice. My father helped her burn her blood stained clothes, and that was what I had seen, and why my brain put together the incorrect story of my father; the killer. That was the true final nail in the coffin for my father. I was angry and confused, knowing the truth only heightened those feelings; he had made me believe that he just didn't care about us anymore. 

Although in truth I don't think he did. He had moved a mere nine miles away from the highway in Las Vegas, and he never even called; not once. He told me when I saw him for the first time in years that he had been following me in the newspapers and online; like that was to be some kind of comfort to me. I suppose I should thank my father really; he's the reason I obtained doctorate degrees in Math, Chemistry and Engineering, bachelors in Psychology and Sociology, and why I joined the BAU in the first place," Spencer sighed softly and looked upon the faces of Liana and Billy, their faces a mask of horror and pity combined.   
"What's the BAU?" Liana blinked, and took another ravenous bite of her hot dog.  
"Behavioral Analysis Unit," Spencer spoke softly, his voice sounded strange to him, almost disembodied as he spoke of a life he no longer recognised. Liana's brow furrowed in perplexity;  
"I ain't no genius like you Spencer, what's that mean?" she picked at the hot dog bun, as if choosing which parts of the bun were good and which were bad.  
"It's a branch of the FBI, they help to catch serial killers by using profiling skills, basically describing the type of person they're looking for by what characteristics they have and what they do as their crimes," Spencer thought carefully about each word, trying not to over complicate things and use the most basic terminology he could muster. Billy's eyes narrowed in way that Spencer knew to be the beginnings of a conspiracy theory, hatching in his vivid brain.  
"You're a Fed?" he spoke slowly.  
"I used to be." Spencer locked his gaze with Billy's in sheer defiance, prepared for the abandonment he feared was now imminent.   
"How do we know you're not on some undercover mission right now to watch us? Hmm?" Billy's arms crossed like those of a stubborn child on the brink of a temper tantrum, he eyed Spencer accusingly.  
"I got fired and lost all my money because I was addicted to Dilaudid and gambling," Spencer said sharply; he had been called many things in his years, but never a liar, he didn't care for it.   
"Dilaudid? Why would you touch that stuff? It's poison," Billy backed down a little, and showed reproach for his acid tongue.  
"If you stop accusing me for thirty seconds I'd tell you," Spencer snapped, although he hadn't meant to, he was just uneasy and ashamed of the words he had yet to say.  
"Alright, jeez, calm down and start tellin' the tale," Liana chimed in, her hot dog now devoured, she'd taken it upon herself to tear apart a pretzel. Spencer's jaw clenched once again, as he focused his attention to the thread that had found its way loose from his sleeve, pulling and twisting it in nervous agitation.   
"I was working a case with JJ...Jennifer Jareau," he smiled sadly and pointed to the beautiful blonde in the photograph;  
"We were after a serial killer, his name was Tobias Hankel. I don't remember why anymore, but for some reason we split up. Anyway...he had Dissociative Identity Disorder, and his alter kidnapped me. He made me choose a 'sinner' to save, and a couple to die. He tried to make me pick a member of my team to die. I picked Aaron Hotchner," he paused again to point to the dark-haired figure of his former boss;  
"But I deliberately misquoted the Bible passage to send them a message of my whereabouts. I had to watch him kill people, he...tortured me. Tobias...he injected me with Dilaudid, he was trying to help me...I didn't have a choice...and by the time the team found me, and I managed to kill him it was too late. When they weren't looking, I took the Dilaudid from his pocket and put it in my pocket. I was addicted, and I never made that choice; someone else took my life and made it their toy. I know Tobias was trying to help me...and I'm grateful; he saved my life, but this is what life is now for me, so was I even really saved?" Spencer spat bitterly, his anger for his plight still bubbling under the surface like a dormant volcano. He cursed the tears that chased their way down his sunken, ashen cheeks. Liana jumped up from her seat and in a childlike manner, hugged him and patted his head.  
"He was a bad man though Spencer?" she asked him innocently. Spencer paused for a second;"He was three people; Tobias was troubled, and not genuinely evil, but his other parts were indubitably cruel, yes," he mumbled into her shoulder.  
"Then you had to kill them all, you only done what you had to?" she reasoned, making Spencer's heart break a little;  
"I...suppose that's true, but I never wanted to take a life. I wanted to help, not hinder," he let his hands loosely embrace Liana to comfort himself. Billy sat across from them, stone cold silent, lost in his own musings by Spencer's own perception.   
"But if it wasn't your fault, if that story is true, they wouldn't have punished you," he narrowed his eyes in a way that proved his untrust.   
"That was five years ago, I'll get to that part," Spencer said softly, mild agitation in his voice;  
"But I want to hear some of your stories, I've told you a lot of things about my life, and I hardly know anything about you both. Liana? How did you get here?" he looked down at her. She shifted her gaze quickly;  
"Cause I done a bad thing. I had to hide," she bit her nails, her eyes darting from place to place.  
"What kind of bad thing?" Spencer folded his arms around himself.  
"I got a guy put in prison for rape," she said softly, still biting her nails.  
"Did he rape you?" Spencer looked upon her with pity in his eyes, his voice soothing. Liana shook her head furiously.  
"Nope. But I said he did cause he was bad," she nodded;  
"Bad people get punished. That's why I'm out on the street. Cause they found out I told a lie and I had to hide from the people who were his family and stuff, y'know?" she looked up at Spencer, who shook his head in disbelief. He had no words, clever or otherwise to answer that revelation.   
"She's got an illness y'know. Pseudologia Fantastica," Billy interjected, naturally defensive of Liana, because they'd been through so much together those last few years.  
"That means she--"  
"Is a pathological liar," Spencer finished, looking at Billy, not a hint of judgment clouded his face.   
"That's why I don't really say nothing no more, cause no one believes me cause I lie so much," she nodded and looked forlorn.  
"Do you hate me now Spencer?" Liana whimpered, her bottom lip trembling like a child's.  
"I don't hate you," he said shortly. After a short pause, he spoke again;  
"You have a mental illness, and it's not my place to judge. Although I'm not a liar, I'm still a sinner just like everyone else," he smiled sadly. Liana buried her face in Spencer's shoulder and muttered;  
"We're all sinners," she climbed off his knee, and opened the packet of smokes;"I can have one, right Spencer?" she looked at him pleasingly. Spencer nodded;  
"Of course you can," he affirmed, and stood to retrieve a smoke for himself. He lent precariously close to the fire, his face hit with a rush of blistering heat as he lit the forbidden vice. He breathed in deeply and coughed as the smog of grey smoke permeated his body. Billy picked up the packet and pressed a smoke between his lips, then lit it over the fire. He exhaled deeply, blowing a billow of smoke across the air.  
"We need more money. I reckon with sixty we could get some more blankets, some water, maybe even some socks," he said, his eyes fixated on Spencer.  
"Yeah, you're probably right," Spencer spoke obliviously, not noticing Billy's subliminal request.   
"It's your turn Spencer," he said sternly. Spencer turned his head to the direction of this vocal revelation. He stared a moment before speaking;  
"Right. Right of course," he took another drag of the smoke.  
"It's ten. Now's as good a time than any. Should be a lot of business up by Rafters," he spoke sullenly, his mouth almost numbed by the words. Rafters was a popular gay night club in the heart of Manhattan. Spencer had found many men willing to pay for services in that area; usually closeted business men, who probably had wives, respectable jobs and families. Spencer stubbed the smoke out on the cold concrete and rose stiffly.   
"I'll see what I can get," he said shortly and turned to disappear hastily through the arch. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up around his ears and cut through the alleyway behind Bargain City, his hands shaking from both the cold and his nervousness. He hated doing what he was about to do, but what could he do about it? He had lost the will to even begin to rebuild himself, sure that there was not enough of him left to do so. Now all he could do was shame and degrade himself, in hopes of survival.   
　　He approached Rafters and silently slipped round the back of the club; that's where the willing patrons usually approached him. He opened the back door and vigilantly checked there were no bouncers or lost patrons to catch him, before ducking into the restroom. He quickly approached the sinks and covered his hands and face with soap, washing days of grime from them, the hot water tingled his cold skin. He used a splash of water to smooth down the flyaway parts of his hair, that covered his face. He rinsed his mouth out several times, before drinking long gulps of cold water. He kept his gaze lowered; he couldn't stand to look at what he had become.   
　　He slipped back out of the club and leaned nonchalantly against the wall, looking around for anyone to serve. He didn't have to wait long before a tall, stocky man, with dark stubble and piercing grey eyes crossed into his peripheral vision.  
"How much?" he asked gruffly, Spencer turned and eyed him up;  
"Hundred bucks," he said, daring to push the number up, hoping he was worth it.  
"And for you to give me head with that sweet mouth of yours?" he smirked sleazily;  
"Forty with a condom, fifty without," he stood his ground;  
"I don't do condoms," he narrowed his eyes  
"You clean?" Spencer countered;  
"Yes, I'm clean," he retorted, seemingly offended by the question;  
"Alright, fifty bucks," he held out his hand as the man chuckled, shaking his head and opening his wallet. He paid Spencer in two twenties and a ten, the crumped notes crunched as he closed his hand around them. He shoved the notes into his jeans pockets and nodded to the man;  
"Do you have a car?" he asked meekly.  
"It's parked round the front, we can go to the alley down by TGI Fridays," he nodded towards the street with his head. Spencer nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets and followed, his head down.   
　　The man opened the door to the black sedan car, and Spencer climbed in, his nerves a little dismantled, but his external composure remained intact. The man climbed in and shut the door forcefully, checking his mirror and after three failed attempts because of the icy cold's grip on the engine, started the car. He drove no more than two hundred yards, and pulled into the dark, forboding alley behind TGI Fridays; it was secluded and a sickly feeling ravaged Spencer's body, a lonely bead of sweat breaking free to roam down his forehead. The man cut the engine and undid the seatbelt and struggled into the back seat of the car.  
"Get on with it then," he said shortly as he unzipped his jeans. Spencer clambered over the seats and released the catch to push the driver's seat forward, allowing him space to kneel in front of the man. He looked down and closed his eyes, gulping softly before taking the length of the man into his mouth. The taste of salt and sweat made him gag a little, but he regained his composure, and continued to work as he was told to, urged on by barked commands of the man. He felt the hair of his head tugged viciously in throes of this man's pleasure, pushing himself further into the warm orifice. Spencer clamped his eyes shut and swallowed thickly as he felt the conclusion of this sordid act slide down his throat. He struggled up from his knees and jumped out of the car. He shivered involuntarily, but it was nothing to do with the cold that pervaded the air. The man stepped out of the car, zipping himself up;  
"What, no goodnight kiss?" he sneered and laughed menacingly. Spencer began to walk away, ignoring the words of this creep, trying to will the man's touch and taste from his essence. He turned back to see a fist lunge towards him, ducked a second too late and the hit connected with his nose, causing it to bleed profusely. The man continued to rain down punches and kicks upon Spencer's frail body, which was now wracked with sobs and pitiful pleas. All of a sudden, the blows ceased and he opened the one eye that was not swollen shut. He saw the silhouette of the man, swimming in his hazy vision and he spat blood to one side; a crimson trickle tainting the ivory snow with a sinister hue of bitterness. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness, was the figure of a traitor, climbing into the car, and driving away into the night. I'm going to black out. Oh God, I'm going to die here, and Spencer Reid remembered no more.


End file.
